Mercy, Pride and Grace
by Heath07
Summary: Ryan remembers. Taboo. Dark themes. Second person POV. Hints of Slash.


Title: Mercy, Pride and Grace.

Rating: PG-13 

Summary: Ryan remembers. Taboo. Dark themes. 

Disclaimer: I don't own anything...

Feedback: Please. It keeps me on my toes and inspired to keep writing. 

Notes: All hail the oxymoron! ;) I really didn't set out to write this, it just sort of happened. This fic sheds a negative image on some organized religions. If you have problems with that, don't read it, please.   
  


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"Ryan, do you want to go to church with us?" Seth's voice, though you can't quite grasp what he's saying. You can see his enthusiasm waning, but you can't do anything to stop it because you've moved beyond listening.

----

Televangelists spoke of pride and mercy and grace. You never witnessed a miracle and you never really believed in God. **He** seemed too separate from the world in which you lived...like some missionary that blared crude, religious propaganda from your television set. **He** did not live on earth where you struggled to survive in a hostile playground of penniless decadence.   
  


There were food vouchers at Christmas and a Thanksgiving meal in the church basement, and sometimes charity that kept you clothed. But never a real, live miracle...even though you prayed for one.   
  


Your Momma used to say '_church was for poor people who ain't got nothing else to cling to._' She used to make you look down the aisle and whisper, so close to your face you could smell her sour, stale breath, '_look Ryan, you don't see anyone in no fancy suits or any ladies in them regal hats. Church is for poor people because it's all we got. If you ever get out of here, don't forget what the church gave you_.' She had said it with such earnestness, such a nervous need for her words to be heard and digested.   
  


You pretended to understand and nodded just to appease her, like someday you would make good on your word. But you never wanted what church gave you. It was a good day if you could even stay awake through the whole service. And a bigger phenomenon that you didn't burn the place to the ground.  
  


You never understood why she went. Why she dropped her hard-earned money in the collection plate as it passed by and then got down on her knees and prayed. Prayed for what, you never knew. Happiness? A better job, maybe? That you and Trey wouldn't turn out like your old man...or like her?  
  


You remember the stout minister as he stood on the pulpit and delivered a sermon about the sins of the world. How Jesus had died for all of our sins and how grateful we should be.   
  


You weren't grateful as he condemned the blasphemous, as he repudiated the sexually depraved, which you knew was code for homosexuality; and you knew as he looked down at his parishioners and happened to catch your eye, that it wasn't an accident. He knew what you were even then.   
  


And you knew what he was even before you felt his bone-white, clammy hands sifting through your hair as you walked by gripping your mother's hand. A predator. A snake in the grass. The king of the sexually depraved...only his position made it worse. Made it easier for him to prey on the weak. On the poor. On those searching for hope.  
  


His own impotence made him a shrivelled waste of a man. He fed off of single mothers' children. A perverse need drew him to you. A sick, unblemished satisfaction flittered on his face as the choir sang ancient hymns while he studied you and the boy that you were. He took that from you little by little, until you were far too weathered and abused to be a boy.  
  


An almost jocose smile played on his thin, servant lips. Lips that had told you lies; made you swear not to tell the truth. Made you believe you were his little tempter. That he could not be near you without touching. Without fulfilling his holy obligation to rid you of the demons that possessed your soul.  
  


You wanted to scream. You wanted to tell your mother what her church was doing to you. Why church was really for the poor. But you couldn't. You were frozen with disgrace Paralysed by your youth and poverty. At the mercy of the good will of this so-called righteous institution. 

---  
  


"Ryan! Ryan!?" Seth again and you can see his lips forming your name.  
  


You're paralysed again and have to shake yourself out of it. "Huh?"  
  


Seth steps back, looking puzzled. "Whoa, where were you just then?"  
  


"Nowhere," you claim, rubbing your eyes like it might take away the memories. "Sorry Seth, what?"  
  


"Mom's making us go to church. It's going to be boring, but I thought you might want to come."  
  


You can feel the hair on the back of your neck prickle and the shame spreads thick on your skin. "Church? N-no, if it's okay, I think I'll just stay here."  
  


He offers you his hand; a gesture brotherly and companionable and reassuring. You wish it was more, but you'll take it for now. "Okay man, see ya later."   
  


"Yeah, later."   
  


You hear your mother's voice. '_Don't forget what the church gave you_.' You didn't forget. And you remember what the church took away, too.  
  


_Mercy.   
  
Pride.   
  
Grace._   
  


________

end.


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